


The Slightly Odd Picnic of 1973

by Dashiell_Mirai



Category: Genesis (Band)
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Really just the most stupidly tooth-rotting fluff, Selling England by the Pound, Tea Parties, and all that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 10:59:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18659074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dashiell_Mirai/pseuds/Dashiell_Mirai
Summary: Phil plans a little surprise for everyone. Meanwhile, they're just wondering why he's late.





	The Slightly Odd Picnic of 1973

Things were not going well.

There was a multitude of different perspectives on this- mostly providing different opinions regarding precisely how not well it was going, and whose fault it was.

The rows weren't new. In fact, there had been much worse ones dating back to the days when they, or at least three of them, had been acne-ridden hormone bottle-rockets at Charterhall. A good, screaming row was, in fact, very rare, especially these days.

But, funnily enough, the one thing that never dulled, that never seemed to get old in this world governed by the law of diminishing returns, was the fighting. It rather stung a lot in the moment, when there would be unkind words exchanged, and it was easy to forget how much it did once the moment had passed.

Although he couldn't quite put it into words, this principle was precisely why Anthony George Banks, age twenty-three, was sitting outside of the studio and sulking.

It was sulking, no matter how much he wouldn't like to admit it. Nothing else could really be characterised by having gone off in a huff to sit with his back against a wall. Looking back on it, he could remember indistinctly why this particular incident had occurred- something about the track known to us only as Dancing With the Moonlit Knight. The middle bit, specifically. There had been quite a few evolutions there.

This had, through some contrivance or another, made him quite frustrated. He was going back through the reasons why this was, when the noise of inbound footsteps made him look up. It was Phil.

This had also been the source of much disquiet during rehearsals. It was rather difficult to run things through without a drummer, and they'd been without one for a few tense hours. Tony stared at him. He certainly didn't look remorseful for being late, in fact, he seemed inordinately cheerful, like he knew something they didn't.

“Phil,” he finally managed. “You're late.”

“That I am.”

“You're _never_ late.”

This was true. Despite being the most outwardly laid-back member of the group, Phil was the most punctual. He scratched his nose unbotheredly.

“‘S right.”

Tony began to get back to his feet. “Never mind. Have you have any idea what's been happening while you were gone?”

“I dunno. Same as usual. You’ve probably set Pete on fire while Mike and Steve argue about who plays rhythm and who plays lead.”

The keyboardist couldn't help but smirk a bit. That was the thing about Phil. He just said things, and, invariably, someone would laugh.

“Come on, we've got to run through, uh, this bit you came up with, actually. Before you went off,” he added reproachfully. “Pete’s absolutely losing his head about the time signature change. He's even tried to do the drumming himself. He keeps insisting he can. Which isn't true.”

Despite Tony's efforts to try to get things moving, Phil didn't budge.

“Aren't you going to ask where I've been?”

“Well, I'd considered it, yes. Now come on, we've got to get back to work.”

Phil grinned and shook his head. Without a word, he walked into the cottage, and stopped in front of the sightly shell-shocked remaining trio of young men. They all stopped what they were doing to look at him. Mike and Steve weren't doing anything particularly notable, some tuning or somesuch, but Peter was in the middle of trying to play drums for the first time since 1969. It was going notably pear-shaped.

“Phil!” he exclaimed softly, a difficult vocal feat. “Where have you been?”

“Well, finally someone's asking the important questions,” he said, casting a cheeky glance at Tony, who was leaning against the wall and trying to not be noticed. “It seems to me,” the drummer announced blithely, “that you lot are way overdrawn.”

The expressions of everyone in the room were immediately shaded with frowning brows. No one had to ask “What do you mean?”, but Mike eventually did.

“Just look at you,” he returned, without a shred of disdain. “Come on, don't tell me you don't see it. I doubt you've been outside since, well, last Tuesday.”

They all stared at him blankly, like a group of very small children who had just been informed, in an academic way, about the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle.

“Anyway,” Phil continued, “I'd like to get you all out. You know. Go and have some fun.”

“Well, that'd be nice,” conceded Tony, “Except we've actually got to do things.”

“Fuck ‘em,” he said plainly.

There was a moment's silence. Of course, everyone dreams of just being able to throw their work into a ditch and go to the pub when it suits them, but no one had ever proposed it so directly.

“Sorry, what?” said Peter, eventually.

“You heard me. Let's just go. We're staying in a nice house, in a nice town. Why not enjoy ourselves, am I right?”

Mike looked pensive. “I do like the sound of that.”

“Alright, going once, going twice...”

“So do I,” agreed Steve, with a surprising degree of ease.

“I suppose I might as well,” conceded Tony.

Peter sat there for a moment, drumsticks still in his hands. “Phil, this is a wonderful idea, I'm sure, er… What precisely are we doing?”

Phil touched one finger to the side of his head, grinning. “That's for me to know and you to find out.”

 

* * *

 

The sight would've struck passers-by as somewhat odd.

Sure, it was a lovely summer's day. It wouldn't be entirely out of the ordinary to see people in their back garden, sitting down to a nice cream tea in the dappled sunlight. However, if asked who you'd expect would be picnicking like that, you probably wouldn't answer, “A five-piece progressive rock band composed of men in their mid-twenties.” And if you did I'd call you a loony.

Staring off at the mesmerising motion of the tree branches, Steve took a pensive sip of tea. “You know, Phil, when you mentioned that we should ‘have fun’ and ‘do what's natural’, I didn't think this was what you meant.”

Tony laughed into his teacup. “Yes, rather.”

Collins put on his best face of mock offense. “Where did you think we were going, the pub?”

“Well, yes,” said Peter indifferently.

Phil giggled. “Shame! What kind of alcoholic do you think I am?”

“None at all. It's just that it's sort of the done thing, right?”

“Not today!” he said quite loudly, a pantomime glint in his eyes. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, freaks and geeks of all the world, I present to you this weather, this grass, this burning disc of the sun…!” By this time, he'd gone into his “announcer voice”, which, if anyone had actually auditioned for the role of an announcer using it, they would've been thrown out on their head.

“Yes, quite a nice day, isn't it?” said Mike mildly.

“Yeah,” agreed Phil, pausing to have a bit of a giggle at the perfectly timed anticlimax.

They paused for a moment, letting the good weather sink in. It was truly picturesque, if a bit of an odd picture. The five of them sat underneath the swaying trees, a warm breeze ruffling their hair. The birds chirped melodiously, as if to round out the whole thing. The world was a verdant green and sky blue place, suffused by the yellow light of the afternoon sun.

“This is a lovely tea set,” observed Peter without much fanfare, inspecting his cup and saucer. Upon each dish, there was painted a yellow butterfly perching on a honeysuckle branch.

“Yes, indeed,” Tony agreed. “Where did you get them, may I ask?”

“It’sh a shecret,” said Phil around a mouthful of scone, cream, and jam.

“You didn't steal them, did you?” asked Mike somewhat worriedly.

“‘Course not. Borrowed them from my gran, if you really want to know.”

“Oh. Is she nice then, your gran?” asked Tony, sounding almost comically polite.

Phil laughed. “Yeah. Wonderful lady. Wonderful. Chased me out of her flat with a rolling pin the other day, she did.”

A few ripples of laughter went through the group. “Was that before or after you stole her tea set?” asked Steve. The drummer simply shushed him in response.

“Would you mind passing the sugar?” Tony was in the process of pouring himself another cup of tea. Mike obliged him, grabbing himself another scone while he was at it.

They sat there, peacefully, looking out at the world. Or at least at Chessington.

Peter brushed a strand of hair out of his face. “It was good to get out, don't you think?” He got a few silent nods.

“Good scones, too,” agreed Mike in a roundabout way. “Did you rob a bakery as well?”

“No, I _bought_ them. ‘Cos I'm a law-abiding citizen.”

“Well, either way, it was very thoughtful,” Peter assured him with a smile.

The keyboardist nodded emphatically. “Indeed. And with Darjeeling, too. I quite like Darjeeling, don't you?” No one was quite sure who he was addressing.

“Oh, I don't really favour any one sort,” answered Peter blithely. “Tea’s tea, as far as I'm concerned.”

“Really more of a coffee man m’self,” said Steve.

Pete flicked a pellet of rolled-up grass at him. “A fig for you, sir, we didn't ask."

He chuckled quietly. “I didn't know you had something against coffee drinkers.”

“I don't. It's just that- what's this?”

Nearly the entire band grew very still, some of them stopping mid-chew. A black-and-yellow swallowtail butterfly had decided to land on Peter's head. Its wings opened and closed slowly as it found its footing. His eyes were trained upwards at it.

“Hello, little fellow,” said Peter very quietly. “Enjoying the weather as well?”

“Why do you think he's landed on his head?” whispered Mike, not that it made a difference.

“Well, I dunno, Pete's really cleared him a little runway there,” joked Phil.

That got a smile out of most of them. Peter's decision to shave the middle of his head in a sort of demented reverse mohawk remained mostly inexplicable, but at least the butterflies liked it.

“I expect he likes your china, Phil,” said Peter with a smile, almost serenely. “Reminds him of his brethren.” He put his hand up, and everyone watched in slight astonishment as the butterfly crawled onto it.

He reached out a little and watched, dreamlike, as the little insect walked about. “Go on then.” His voice was nearly inaudible, but not a whisper.

In a sun-soaked blur, it took off, using the tip of his finger as a launch point. The five of them watched it wing into the cloudless sky, presumably to find some more flowers blooming in the midst of this idyllic day.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I can't necessarily vouch for the accuracy of how everyone's portrayed, but I certainly did try. Watched interviews and all that. I may have misheard some place names or whatever, but I don't think it matters too much.  
> Do feel free to comment, that is, if anyone ends up reading this.


End file.
